Red Wing
by Polly Lynn
Summary: She is light. Easy. Rising. Breaking the surface into light and nothing can touch her. Takes place during Always 4x23 , Kate POV. Related to "Certain," but not critical to read both.


Title: Red Wing

Spoilers: Always (so very cliché, that's me)

Rating: T-ish

WC: 1400

A/N: I love—so much—that Marlowe and Stana let Kate be _joyful_ in the end. Yes, there will be angst out the yin yang in the wake of all this. But she brings _none _of it to Castle's doorstep. And I just love that. So I had to write a highly unoriginal little POV one shot. Title inspired by this beautiful song by Hem, which has been reminding me of Kate's journey all season: Red Wing

* * *

We are standing on the rooftops

We are circling like sparrows

We are tiny, we are trembling,

Scared of everything

But the heart is still a red wing

Hem, "Red Wing"

* * *

She goes up and up. Hand over hand. And there is a single moment of heaviness. A stutter of heartbeats (when there _are_ heartbeats again) and she wants to sink through the rooftop. Because it's not that she isn't grateful. And furious. And incredulous. And _so grateful_. But these are the wrong blue eyes and she can't believe that it's not Castle.

In the moment, the weight seems right. Gravity is the metaphor people use. They talk about downward motion. Being anchored in profound moments. It _is _a profound moment, right?

But she is light. Easy. Rising. Breaking the surface into light and nothing can touch her.

* * *

Not quite nothing.

She is acutely aware of Esposito. Defiant. At her back. She wants to turn away from Gates (_Gates and all her fury could not matter less right now_) and press his hand. Thank him. Explain to him. Show him that everything is light. Up and up.

She snags for a moment on the solidity of her desk. Tangled up in her things. Objects in her hands. The transfer from surface to surface. This is serious. Monumental. Shouldn't she be sorrier? Worried? Undone by her life—her _life_—staring back at her from the gaping mouth of an impersonal black duffel bag.

She pushes herself up now. She rises. Bobs in place. Uncertainty tugs at her for the first time. Then she sees his chair. Empty. Up she goes again. Like her strings have been snipped. She bumps the bag with her thigh. That's not her life in there. She is more.

* * *

The elevator carries her away. Carries her toward. Carries her down. But only literally. Alone, she takes a moment. A breath. Lets it go and savors the ease.

Reality nibbles at the edges of her mind. Tells her this is huge. Wrong. A mess. But she is out the door, on the street, smiling—_smiling_—into the rain.

It occurs to her that this is exactly how Castle would have written this scene. An event. Rain pressing on her. Pulling at her clothes, her hair. Not sharp needles that prick and then relent. Instead, a deluge.

The fog clings to the buildings. Lamp posts rise up and disappear. Cars hulking in the grey. She can barely see the sidewalk, but her feet are sure on the pavement. She steps off the curb, calf deep in a current that tugs at her on its way underground.

She makes her way across the street. A speeding car fans water over her back. She turns and gives the puzzled driver a smile and a wave. She steps up on to the opposite curb. It's part of the pattern. She is part of the pattern with her heart beating strong and steady, eagerness dancing in her belly. But first there are pieces to place. A pilgrimage to everywhere he is not.

The swings are still when she arrives. The chains straining toward the earth, immobilized by the thick blanket of fog. She sits. His swing suddenly stirs in answer. Quirks like a smile.

_Just a minute_, she says aloud, _This is . . . give me a minute. _She rests her forehead against the chain and whispers, _Soon_.

She wraps one hand, then the other around the gunmetal links and tips back. Her arms snap straight and her hair slides off her collar. Dangling. She closes her eyes and enjoys the sensation of rain cascading over her forehead. Cheekbones. The tip of her chin.

She lifts her feet. Arches her back. Slow and tentative at first. Then her legs are working. Pumping furiously. Her elbows bend. She drapes her chest along her thighs. Strains forward, grinning, and falls back again.

The swing climbs higher and higher. Something bubbles up from deep within her. A sob. An exclamation. A fierce, _relieved_ shout. She flings her arms wide and launches herself. Lands awkwardly, arms pinwheeling, mud sucking at her boots. She laughs. Pulls one foot free, then the other, shaking off clods of dirt and grass.

She turns. Points herself toward him and runs. She is an arrow parting the rain.

* * *

She hunches over her phone as she moves. Squints through the rain. She can't believe how much time has passed. How little.

She's close. She'd been so _intent_ she hadn't realized how close.

Sudden, electrifying fear pierces her. She stumbles. Rights herself. Smooths her hands up the front of her jacket. Teases it up and up. Snips its string and lets it fly. Raises her chin as if to watch it go.

And it _is _gone, but it leaves something behind. Solemnity. A warm, golden tone sounding underneath the giddy joy that's been driving her. Recognition. A duty to do this _right. _

She spies a mailbox. Shoves the phone under the shelter of its overhang and brushes off the rain with her thumb. His picture fills the screen. Her knees nearly buckle with want. She dials.

Two and a half rings. A click as he declines the call. She bites her lip. Tears prick her eyelids, but she's laughing, too. She _hates_ his voicemail message. Always has. It's all public persona. The Playboy that was. But his voice. His _voice_. That, she loves.

It leads her in. Into the lobby. Past the doorman. She brushes by the desk, spins to wave off his concern with a smile, walking backward.

She punches the elevator button. Changes her mind. Dashes for the stairs and takes them two at a time. Up and up.

* * *

She knocks. Tries to keep still. But it's all suddenly so intense. Like everything in her is coming to the surface, fizzing, burning, dancing across her skin, to reach through the door. For him.

He opens it and she comes _so close _to laughing. He is stunned. Absolutely.

That stills her. He never believed she'd come for him. Sorrow thrums through her. Just an instant. It's no match for the joy. Not her sorrow and not his. She'll show him. Tuck him by her side and take him with her. Up and up.

But suddenly she doesn't know how to start.

He does, of course, "Beckett. What do you want?"

The future settles on her shoulders. As usual, he's left her the perfect opening, "You."

She steps up. In. Toward. He retreats and she feels a flare of annoyance. She would. This is them, after all.

She lays her hands on him, her lips against his, and wills him to feel what she feels. Peace. Joy. Certainty.

Grief. Regret. Determination. Her hands on his shoulders. His neck. His cheek. She breathes out her apology again and again and again.

He grabs her arms, still fighting. That's ok. She's prepared to work for this. She raises her eyes to his and shows him.

He's wary. Angry even. But he can't resist. Half responds to her kiss even as he pries her away, "What happened?"

It threatens again. The giddy twist of something awful that she felt when he didn't pick up the phone.

What happened? How can she possibly answer that? The answer falls from her lips, sudden and complete: "He got away. I didn't care. I almost died. And all I could think about was you. I just want you."

It's so simple after all.

For a moment anyway. Then things become very complicated. Her ribs rise under his fingers. They won't let go one breath to take another. Her knees give way, but still she's rising. Pressing on his arms, scaling his body.

He's frantic. She takes his desperation from him. Breathes it out. Smiles against him and gives him back certainty. Calm.

With sudden purpose, his drops his head. Ducks under her chin and lets out a shuddering breath against her sternum. Sorrow rings out again. A single note. She waits for it to fade away, then coaxes his head upward. Nods as his fingers hover, uncertain.

He tugs at her, releases the button, his face a mixture of stubborn defiance and awe. Raises his fingers—their fingers—to the pale arc between her breasts. He dives into the next kiss and she feels _something _fall away.

He slows. Makes an effort. She thinks that he might be contemplating something gentlemanly. Grown up. Sensible. She does laugh then. Laughs and smiles wide. Takes his hand.

Leads them both way from every other possible ending.


End file.
